Congratulations Big Titty Programmer!

Video games are well known for two things: violence and juvenile portrayals of what gamers call the ladies in a chorus of too low, incredibly creepy voices.  The violence is easy enough, you can get that shit anywhere, but the strange sexual dynamic of video games is a truly surreal thing, an objectification that combines commoditization, humiliation, empowerment, forced intimacy, and damseldom into one ubertrope that rules the subconscious of thousands, nay millions of young men and women.  It takes a particular hand to craft these archetypes of feminine oddity, and that hand, my friend, is you.

You've been making the polygons that make ladies boobies big for as long as you can remember.  Some say you didn't exist at all before Tomb Raider emerged and press ganged you into being.  No one knows for sure if it's true, because you can't remember where you were born, or anything from before 1996.  If you were any less adept at your chosen profession, you'd have long since been cast out into the cold, uncaring world, left homeless on the street.  Instead you live in a mansion alone, with only a pack of wild dogs you had imported from Namibia for company.

A few weeks ago you started an internet dating profile out of a sense of crippling loneliness, and today, after many hours of browsing, chatting and generally being roundabout about things, you're going to, for the first time in your life, meet a woman in a non-work capacity.

You'll sit down from the table across from her and, staring at her chest, introduce yourself.

"Hello," you'll say.

She'll laugh, a tittering sound.

"Aw," she'll say.  "My eyes are up here, dickhead."

Your eyes will flit from her chest to her face, back to her chest, up to her face, before you'll turn bright red and stammer.

"S-s-sorry..."

She'll look at you, puzzled for a moment, before spitting out:

"Are you retarded?"

You'll shake your head avidly, like a dog, lending little credence to your denial.

"Sorry.  Pretty girl.  Don't get out much."  You'll shrug at yourself.  "You know how it is."

She'll open her mouth to reply, then close it, then open it again.

"Am I the first fucking woman you've ever met or something?"

She'll already be moving to leave, standing up in her seat, when she sees your avid nodding, your gaze now focused on her half-standing lap.  She'll pause there, taking you in, eyes soaking up your clothes, your hair, your skin, so pale.  Her fingers will drum the back of her chair.  You'll want to explain things to her, tell her what you do, why this is so hard for you, why seeing actual breasts is distressing for you, but you'll be completely unable to do so, unable to speak, to move, to make a sign of any kind.  After an eternity of standing in the middle space of her chair she'll sit down, put on a cardigan to cover her shoulders and cleavage, and pick up the wine list.

"Well shit," she'll mutter into the table.  "Do you drink?"

Congratulations Big Titty Programmer!

Congratulations on Making Your Apartment Fuck Friendly!

 You moved in like a week ago and it’s been an absolute nightmare getting your apartment ready for gentleman/lady/gentlemanlady callers.  First you had to go without a leather sex swing for your first night, which was simply barbaric.  Then you had to wait half a day for the workmen to come in and install the damn thing, and they didn’t even have the good manners to bugger you for your trouble.  Barbarians, really.  Then you had to test it, which meant waiting for your spotter, James, to come by.  James was a good sport, but it took him two and a half hours to come and see you and then another hour to test it.  He spent the night, but still, it was a huge chunk of his day.

Then you had to wait for ANOTHER work crew to install the full-ceiling mirror in your new bedroom.  Testing that was easier: you just lazily masturbated while staring into your own eyes, and it was a rousing success.  But you were still missing a few things.

Two days ago you had your human-sized cage delivered and then set up by a separate work crew.  Then you had your first slave delivered.  She was horrified and didn’t speak a lick of English, but the moment you gave her food she became obedient.  She’s been pretty good for the last day or two, even though she’s still violently afraid of the cattle prod you’ve been using to discipline her.  You’re confident she’ll become a fine…whatever your relationship with her would legally be defined as (common law wife?).

But still, you’ve been waiting for the last and most important item: curtains!  You’ve felt absolutely naked without them (and technically you’ve been in violation of the Bostonian blue law preventing any kind of sexual activity without blinds drawn in a bedchamber) and today you’re going to stroll down to Target and, using your Russian slave girl as a stepping stool, install the curtain rod holders around the window frames that face your neighbors.

You’ll still have some exposed windows in your kitchen, but now most of Jamaica Plains won’t be able to see you buttfucking men in leather masks, so everyone should be a lot happier, and your place will feel a lot more like home.  Which it should be for a while, as long as your neighbors have a solid tolerance for hearing people screaming for mercy.

Congratulations on Making Your Apartment Fuck Friendly!

Congratulations on Hittin' Da Club!

You rarely leave your house because of a generalized series of disorders we like to call “elephant man disease,” and when you do it’s always kind of a crazy experience. So tonight, when you “hit da club” it’s not just going to be a matter of dinner dancing with champagne flutes and bitches and hoes and something else. It’s going to be crazy.

First off you look like the Elephant Man, as we mentioned before, which makes going out in public a weird and alienating experience for both you and all the people around you. Second off, you talk an incredibly high pitched whine so everything you say is annoying, even when it’s profound. And third off, you have a giant dick which gets hard for like, no reason, which means women are alternately offended by your penis and incredibly excited to see you because they want to jump your freakish, malformed bones.

So when you arrive at the club in your finest hood clutching a cane of ivory taken from the tusk of the mightiest elephant you could catch and kill at the San Diego Zoo you’ll shrilly announce your presence.

“Good evening, ladies,” your reedy voice will trill through the night air. The music will stop for a moment as the entire population of the club takes in your presence, an awkward experience that will be that much more awkward for the fact that you’ll find it incredibly arousing.

It’ll make you sprout a boner so thick and hard that it’ll even be visible the bartender struggling to sift through the mumbled orders of a dozen unruly, unpleasant under-aged patrons.

“Mommy like,” she’ll mouth at you. You’ll nod back, your hood rustling in the silence. The rustling will only serve to arouse you further, making your penis even more engorged, and when the music starts up again women will cluster around you, grinding on your giant, misshapen dick.

“It has begun,” you’ll nasally intone as women get “all up on” you. You’ll lazily roll your hips with each of them, but your eyes will never leave the bartender, not that she’ll be able to notice thanks to the hood. She’ll keep glancing at you intermittently throughout the night, pausing every once in a while to lick her lips and make blowjob-ish gestures at you.

The two of you will end up having angry sex later on that night, which will be great until she tears your hood off and exposes your face. After that she won’t be able to stop screaming.

Congratulations on Hittin’ Da Club!